


The Definition of Courage

by Mizzy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Gen Fic, M/M, Multi, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another quest for Strength, Courage and Magic leads Arthur to wonder just who is who, and what does it mean if <i>he</i> is Magic?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Definition of Courage

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt by Mijeli.  
> 
> 
> Written as pre-slash in mind for either Merlin/Arthur or even Merlin/Arthur/Gwaine, but honestly it's probably just Gen. So wear whichever pair of goggles you fancy, really. There's some banter. And nudity for fun. As you do.

Sometimes Merlin is a little like a dog with a bone.   
  
Okay, a lot like a dog with a bone. Arthur had this hunting dog once, Celert, who stole a bone from Uther once. Even as Uther barked for Celert to be put down, Celert wouldn't let the bone go - even with seven fully-armoured Knights of Camelot careering around the square after him.   
  
It wasn't so funny afterwards, when Celert was finally caught. Arthur cried bitterly until Uther backhanded him to shut him up, and that night, he crept into Morgana's bedchamber and they cried together under her bed while in the distance, Celert howled.   
  
Uther made Arthur watch as Celert was killed. Arthur struggled to stand the whole time. Morgana held him up, and was almost smiling the whole time. As soon as it was over, Arthur dragged her off, and pushed her into the wall. She laughed, and punched him in the mouth. Arthur held his bleeding mouth as she laughed and he thought, for the first and only time until her actual betrayal, _you are the worst thing in this world after father._   
  
Then she dragged him by the scruff of his neck to the stables, where Celert was hidden.   
  
This was the first time Arthur believed in magic. He didn't know if it meant Morgana was magic, or the world was magic, or his  _dog_  was magic - he just didn't care. Celert was alive. The warlocks could overrun the whole of Camelot for all he cared in that moment.   
  
It wasn't magic. Morgana explained how she sometimes helped the stablehands look after the horses, and one of the old hunting dogs was sick and in a lot of pain.  _That's_  the dog that was executed. The old dog's pain was ended, and Celert was fine.   
  
Together, Morgana and Arthur painted Celert with oil to look like a different dog. Arthur ran down to the kennels once a day to maintain the charade. And Uther never realised. He never realised Celert was amongst the dogs. Celert learned to answer to his new name, Bran, and Arthur realised for the very first time that his father could be wrong.   
  
For a ten-year old boy who worshipped his father, nothing could have been more earth-shattering. Or more of a relief.   
  
Sometimes, Merlin reminds Arthur painfully of Celert. Celert's gone for real now, surreptitiously traded to a Welsh lord with a weakness for protecting animals. Perhaps Arthur's picking up that same weakness, but for prats—   
  
Of course, the instant he thinks it, the instant he knows it's not true - Merlin's not a prat at all. He's ridiculously loyal, and always somehow conveniently,  _conveniently_  there when Arthur needs him, even at times Arthur doesn't  _know_ he needs him, and he's... company. It's lonely being King. Something Uther never told Arthur. In death, Arthur feels closer to his father than ever.   
  
Except, Uther would probably never condone his current quest.   
  
Uther would have thrown Grettir in the dungeons, or had him thrown out of Camelot.   
  
He wouldn't have let the wounded dwarf lie bleeding in his throne room, telling of the real (according to him) reason why Arthur's Western villages were starving to death. Uther would have laughed himself silly at the idea of a curse being to blame. Or he would have ordered another kingdom-wide culling of anything remotely magical.   
  
He chuckles to himself as he shifts into a more comfortable spot by the fire.   
  
It's a nice night to be out questing. The stars are a thick blanket up above, low and comforting. Merlin's stew was palatable and filling, and Arthur's feeling well fed and pretty good about ignoring Grettir.   
  
"Only Courage, Strength and Magic will succeed"  _indeed._  Arthur's not stupid. Why only take three people when he can have a whole company of knights?   
  
Except, Merlin  _is_  stupid. Because he keeps on, like Celert and that damn bone, about Grettir being knowledgeable, and curses being tricky things, and if Grettir thinks the three of them alone should do it then, maybe, he's right. Because what do  _they_  know about curses, after all, and-   
  
Oh. Even Arthur's  _thoughts_  now are babbling like Merlin. Fantastic.   
  
That Courage, Magic and Strength thing had been esoteric at best. Some ancient poem from a drunk druid, dressed up as a prophecy. It wasn't the fulfillment of any ancient prediction or magic - it was the consequence of having a nosy and stubborn manservant with a loyal friend. That Merlin and Gwaine had ended up being mostly what he needed to survive had been a coincidence, nothing more. In fact, they may have slowed him down. He may have been just fine on his own.   
  
And what did Courage, Magic and Strength even  _mean_ , anyway?   
  
Arthur's sort of been thinking about it a lot, since Grettir turned up in the throne room, beaten to a bloodied bundle of bruises. Because Merlin, Merlin's definitely not strength - he has trouble holding a sword with two hands. He remembers Merlin jumping in front of the Derocha. Courage, then. Merlin's definitely Courage. Arthur looks over to where Gwaine's fooling around with Percival and Gareth, and kicking both of their behinds without breaking a sweat, and he knows exactly who  _Strength_ is.   
  
Which leaves Arthur exactly where he doesn't want to be, but has been suspecting for so long he might.   
  
_Magic._   
  
He swallows, flexes his hands, and stares into the flames in an attempt to look enigmatic. He's pretty sure he's not fooling anyone, but it's hard to care. The thought's been heavy at the back of his mind since he discovered the truth—since he discovered the heavy part magic had in his birth.   
  
_Am I a thing of flesh or a thing of magic_  is the question that's plagued him, over and over, a dull headache of a soundtrack, but it's a question Arthur's never wanted to push and prod at.There are several creatures on the outskirts of Camelot, individuals like Grettir, who would be happy to tell him the truth for a price.   
  
And a truth like this they'd be happy to tell. They would gloat.   
  
King Uther's son, a thing made from magic.   
  
Arthur doesn't know if he believes it... but if it  _was_  true—   
  
He doesn't know how he would handle it. Could he abandon his kingdom, his throne, for it? If he had known years ago for sure, would he have stepped aside and let Morgana have the throne? She had the bloodline right, even if Arthur hadn't known it back then.   
  
He tries to picture what it would have been like being born  _knowing_  he was magic. A warlock. Able to make the flames dancing before his eyes, smouldering logs and coal to glowing embers, appear just from his fingertips.   
  
Would he have anyone in his life the same? Perhaps Gaius, in his rare trips around the kingdom to find herbs. Their paths might have crossed.   
  
Morgana had been born with magic. That much Arthur knows now. Nobody who learned the craft from nothing could be so powerful. There hasn't been enough  _time_  for Morgana to learn magic that powerful without having been born to some of the power naturally.   
  
And if Morgana, she of  _normal_  birth could have it, surely Arthur's  _unnatural_ birth may have caused the same side-effect?   
  
He's never felt like he has magic, but sometimes,  _sometimes_ , some of the things that happen around him are so marvellous he thinks for a heart-stopping second,  _was that me?_   
  
Arthur thinks of several things: snakes appearing from a shield, glowing lights following him, soldiers about to strike him inexplicably being hit by falling stones and tree trunks and debris.   
  
He hadn't even  _thought_  of those things before they happened, and as Uther had always told him half of the evil of magic was intent (and however good intentions are at the beginning, magic always sours them to bad.) If Arthur is  _Magic_ , then it's hidden so deeply nobody can see it, not even himself.   
  
One thing is for certain in all of this: if Arthur had known he had magic, he would not have grown up in Camelot. A warlock would have to be an _idiot_  to hang around Camelot, the infamous kingdom for magical intolerance, beheading and burning.   
  
The tree trunk that Arthur's currently perched on shifts a little. Not enough for the bulk of a knight.   
  
"I was just thinking of you, Merlin," Arthur says, looking straight forward.   
  
"Ah, you were  _thinking_ . I was right that you were in pain," Merlin says. Arthur doesn't have to turn to see the insufferable smirk stretching at the corner of Merlin's mouth.   
  
"Well," Arthur clarifies, "I was thinking about idiots."   
  
"Oh," Merlin says, in a sorrowful tone, "you were thinking about  _yourself_ , you mean."   
  
Arthur shoves him hard enough that Merlin topples off the end of the trunk. Merlin picks himself up and plonks himself back down, narrowing his eyes at the chortling knights.   
  
"See, now I've figured out why you insisted I—the one and only King of Camelot,  _your_  irreplaceable monarch—should not travel with his errant knight protectors," Arthur says, "the  _mocking_ ."   
  
"You're hilarious," Merlin mutters, the tips of his ridiculous ears going a little pink. Arthur cheers up immensely. Baiting Merlin is one of his favourite things to do. "I still think I was right."   
  
"You  _always_  think you're right," Arthur says. "What a strange life it must be, to think you're right and yet be continuously wrong."   
  
"They say married life isn't much different," Merlin says.   
  
Arthur shuffles and narrows his eyes, because it's a sore spot, and Merlin knows it's a sore spot. Mostly because the first two days of this quest, Arthur might have sort of loudly complained the whole time about where else he could be. In his warm bed. In clean clothes. In his wife's warm arms.   
  
Elyan got a bit cross-eyed at that one, so Arthur toned that part down a little.   
  
"Well, I don't miss that," Arthur says, "or the nagging. Although-" He snorts. "Spending time with  _you_  is like being married without all the good parts."   
  
Merlin colours. Arthur's delighted. Both at appalling Merlin so much  _and_  at the mental image of Merlin in Gwen's wedding gown.   
  
"Are you picturing me in a dress?" Merlin says, sounding horrified.   
  
"How on earth-" Arthur starts, spluttering.   
  
And then Merlin  _looks_ as horrified as he sounds as he manages, "I was  _kidding._ "   
  
"Oh," Arthur says, and in his best pompous tone, because he's a  _King_ , he adds, "So was I."   
  
Merlin shakes his head, one of his genuine almost-rueful smiles on his face now, and looks back at Arthur. "Of course, sire."   
  
"I am always right," Arthur says, airily. He feels like he can be lighter now, some of the heaviness of his thoughts evaporating as the night progresses. Mocking Merlin always chases the blues away. "Like I was about not listening to Grettir's blathering on how to defeat this blasted curse. A full complement of knights is so much better than just three people."   
  
Merlin snorts, not sounding convinced at all, and mutters something that sounds like  _we'll see._   
  
Arthur doesn't even consider putting him in the stocks, because it sort of reminds him of Uther, and words fail him for a moment. After a possibly too-telling moment of silence, he says, " _You_  just think if it was Gwaine and you and me that you two could gang up on me."   
  
" _Would_  I?" Merlin asks, in that faux-innocent tone which is all the shades of  _of course I would._   
  
"Never," Arthur says, even though they both know very well that the words  _I'd let you_ are hanging in their comfortable silence.   
  
The knights interrupt then, with a petty childish prank—dirtying their dinner plates again. Merlin wanders off, and Arthur doesn't think to be sad at the loss. The place they're heading to is another two days' ride away, and there'll be plenty of time left to mock Merlin about how wrong he is about following Grettir's advice.   
  
And then Leon breaks his leg.   
  


* * *

  
  
It doesn't happen until the next morning. But then, when it does start happening, the knights fall like dominoes.   
  
Leon's horse trips over a root and tumbles him to the ground; Pelleas takes him back to Camelot. A bird nearly takes Percival's eye out; Gareth has to help guide him back to get to Gaius immediately. Palomides  _and_  Donard nearly drown when they ford a simple river—Arthur snaps and sends Ban, Safer and Owain back with them because obviously,  _obviously_  this quest is bloody cursed.   
  
It leaves just himself, Merlin and Gwaine to travel to the Drang Isle, smash the cursed object, and save Camelot. Just the three of them.  _Courage, Strength... and Magic._   
  
Merlin even manages to hold his  _I told you so_  in for nearly the whole day.   
  
Gwaine's good-natured about it, shedding most of his armour and lolling around the fire as they roast a couple of wild rabbits Merlin somehow managed to catch on his own without a snare, and it's like it was back before. Back before Arthur was King and Morgana had betrayed them.   
  
If Arthur doesn't think too hard, he can pretend it's true.   
  
Because life isn't kind, Gwaine brings up the Courage, Strength and Magic thing. Arthur holds his tongue, because it's not just his issue to think about. Clearly they've all been thinking about it.   
  
"The way I see it," Gwaine says, swigging down the last of the ale they brought with them and smashing the skein into their campfire like he's not a Knight of the Realm, but still a bawdy traveller. Arthur allows him the illusion, because it would be hypocritical given his nostalgic turn of thought. "Is that you, your majesty, are definitely strength. Takes a strong guy to pull a Sword out of a Stone."   
  
Merlin shuffles uncomfortably, his eyes wide. "I guess we all know strength isn't me," Merlin says, slow. He's flexing his fingers, like maybe he's regretting the lack of strength in them.   
  
"And you have to be courage, Merlin," Gwaine says. Arthur tilts his head, curious now to hear Gwaine's reasoning. Arthur can mentally picture, once again, Merlin charging full force to the Derocha, to keep it away from him, and he shudders.   
  
Merlin interprets it as Arthur being cold, and - muttering nonsense under his breath that is probably a thousand different curses for Arthur's bad habits and inability to just  _say_  when he is cold - throws some more wood on the fire and pokes it. The tongues of fire soar up higher as Merlin scowls, head bowed, face mostly hidden until the fire flames up and then, just for a second, it's like Merlin's face is made of gold.   
  
Then the fire calms, and he's plain old Merlin again, and Arthur feels sorry for that random, instant moment of fancy.   
  
"Me,  _Courage_ ?" Merlin says, with that half little scoff of disbelief he makes whenever Arthur tries to pay him a reluctant compliment.   
  
"Sure you are," Gwaine says. "I don't know anyone but me and you who would insult our King here to his face and still expect to live afterwards. And he only lets me get away with it because I'm so criminally stupid."   
  
Arthur pretends to mull it over, but nods.   
  
"And jaw-droppingly handsome," Gwaine adds, puffing up his chest.   
  
Arthur and Merlin roll their eyes and pretend to yawn. Gwaine sags, and narrows his eyes at them.   
  
"All right," Arthur says, "care to explain why you're Magic, then?"   
  
There is an edge to Arthur's tone now, and he hates it. He doesn't want it there. It's a cast-off thought, an instinctive reaction built into him, a streak of Uther in him that he cannot erase. A streak of desperate, insistent  _magic is wrong, magic is wrong, magic is wrong._   
  
It's strong enough to make Merlin uncomfortable, but subtle enough for Gwaine to have missed it.   
  
"My arse, of course," Gwaine roars, jumping to his feet, dropping his trousers and mooning them unrepentantly. “It’s totally magic. So all the ladies in Camelot say.”   
  
"Could you please just put it  _away_ ," Merlin whines, accidentally rhyming with Gwaine’s crazy as he covers his face with his hands. He peeks through his fingers just in time to see Gwaine start to swing himself from side to side.   
  
"Nature itself," Arthur says, "it's like I can see the whole of Camelot reflected in that white, pale behind. Gwaine, does that thing never see the light of day?"   
  
"'course not," Gwaine says but he does yank his trousers back up and tie them shut one-handedly, winking exaggeratedly at Merlin. "I usually only get it out at night."   
  
"So we've just seen," Merlin says, in a weak sort of tone.   
  
"Well," Arthur says, "if we happen upon some enemies, I think we might just be able to scare them away with that sight. I'll keep your arse in mind, Gwaine."   
  
Gwaine grins, mock-lecherously. "Of course, sire." He winks at Merlin. "It's a nice thing to know that the King of Camelot thinks of your behind."   
  
Arthur splutters while Merlin and Gwaine laugh at him, and orders Merlin and Gwaine to keep first watch even though it's technically Arthur's turn.   
  
They get their revenge accidentally, because Arthur has terrible nightmares the whole time of being chased by Gwaine's arse around a strange, stone fortress that seems to have been carved out of a volcano itself.   
  


* * *

  
When they reach their destination, and the location  _is_  a strange, stone fortress carved into a volcano, Arthur can't shake the weird feeling that curls down his spine.   
  
His mood rubs off on the others. They're silent on the approach.   
  
Of course, the usual for Arthur's quests happens. Those stupid Wyverns crash down out of nowhere. In the ensuing melee they end up separated. Gwaine finds Arthur first, and saves his life, stabbing one of the wannabe-dragons through the soft flesh of its belly, and the two of them find Merlin in the basement standing over a smashed object.   
  
"Do you think that's it?" Arthur gasps, a stitch in his side from running full pelt from more of the Wyverns. "Will we get water back to our lands?"   
  
"Um," Merlin says, "I think so?"   
  
"Your thinking," Arthur says, "is hardly enough."   
  
"Sire," Gwaine says, warningly.   
  
"I know he's your friend, Gwaine, but I need more than an  _I think so_  when my people are at stake," Arthur says.   
  
"Well, I'll just look into my magic eyeglass and look all the way back to Camelot which is four days ride away," Merlin snaps at him.   
  
"Well then maybe we should just stay here and smash everything up just in case so we don't have to waste time going there and back here again," Arthur roars back.   
  
" _Sire,_ " Gwaine says, "I think we were successful and we should run."   
  
"Oh," Arthur says, looking as the walls in front of them crack, leaking water. The walls burst, and a lot of water starts to froth out, rushing towards them, "good plan."   
  
They turn and scramble up the steps of the weird fortress. Merlin takes the lead, racing up ahead. Arthur yells, because Merlin doesn't even have a sword, but even though he could swear  _blind_ he'd seen the flap of a Wyvern's wings ahead of them, when they emerge into the round courtyard of the fortress Merlin is fine and there are no creatures in sight.   
  
Merlin's definitely fine. Drenched to the bone, but fine. Gwaine, behind them, hurls a giant stone over the door, and starts running to the boat they used to get to the small island. Merlin and Arthur nod and hurtle after him. As Gwaine starts to row them away from the island, the water pours out.   
  
By the time they reach the land, where their horses are still tied to a sturdy tree a stretch up from the rocky beach, the island has become submerged behind them, only a small peak of the tallest crumbling tower rising up out of the water to show there was ever anything there.   
  
"I think we can count that as a probable success," Gwaine says. "If not, Gaius must have healed Grettir and maybe the dwarf will have better instructions than when he was busy bleeding all over your throne room."   
  
"Gwaine," Arthur says tiredly, "stop saying clever things. I'll start believing you have a brain and you'll be liable for execution in a week."   
  
Gwaine smirks, and bows extravagantly. "Of course, sire. I'm a potato. You're a girl. Merlin's a genius."   
  
"Know your limits," Arthur tags on the end. He swallows, and stares at the tip of the tower. "I'll tie up the boat. You two get the horses ready. We ride hard back to Camelot. I must know if we have been successful."   
  
Merlin and Gwaine nod and dash off over to the horses, whooping, clearly convinced they've succeeded. Arthur watches them go for a moment before turning back to the boat, and bending down to pull the coil of rope from the bottom.   
  
As he moves to straighten, to tie the boat back onto the post they found it moored to, Arthur startles at a sudden strange sight.   
  
He blinks, and then stares, frozen.   
  
Underneath the water, pressed up to the surface like trapped beneath a thick glass, is a beautiful woman. Young. Her face is blue and her hair ripples out behind her in thick waves. Her smile is pleasant.   
  
Arthur starts forward to save her, and the woman shakes her head.   
  
" _I'm fine, Arthur Pendragon._ " Her voice is like bubbles in his head. Arthur pats the side of his head, like he might dislodge something, but she laughs and it's like water rippling through a brook. " _I am one of the naiads caught by the curse. Laid by your terrible sister, Morgana of the Fey. We are free, and so is the water to your kingdom, kind King. Despite your father's terrible toll on my kind, you have shown mercy to us; and so we thank you."_   
  
"I," Arthur says, because a  _woman under the water is talking to him._ "You're welcome?" he tries.   
  
_"Tell Emrys we will come to his service if he calls, if he needs us,"_  the woman trills, " _and thank you again, Courage. Long may the trio of legend continue._ "   
  
Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but she's gone almost as instantly as she appeared to him. He drops his arms into the water, expecting to hit glass, but touching nothing but water.   
  
He thinks he can hear a bubble of a giggle, but then there's nothing but water and the bump of the boat against his feet.   
  
Arthur busies himself by tying the boat to the post, pretending it's taking him a while. He looks over to where Merlin and Gwaine are drying themselves and tending to the horses.   
  
The naiad, if she was real and not a flight of his fancy, called him  _Courage_ .   
  
Which means Merlin and Gwaine are Magic and Strength. Arthur hasn't let himself believe that possible until now. His stomach feels heavy and his throat feels tight.   
  
His own thought comes back to life, burning hot in the back of his brain.   
  
_A warlock would have to be an idiot to hang around Camelot, the infamous kingdom for magical intolerance, beheading and burning._   
  
He stares across at them, his eyes stinging, his fingers clenching and unclenching. Both of them are idiots. One of them is Camelot's greatest ideal. One is Camelot's greatest evil.   
  
Both of them have proved they would give their lives for Arthur in a moment.   
  
"Oi, have you got lost over there," Merlin hollers. The beach has good acoustics. Merlin's voice is picked up, amplified. It bounces around like a thousand echoes.   
  
"I dunno, walking in a straight line, it's a tough task for royalty," Gwaine adds, just as loudly. "Why do you think they invented thrones? To stop royals embarrassing themselves by pacing up and down their throne rooms. It's hard to be respectful when your monarch's going around bouncing off walls."   
  
Arthur growls, and heads towards them without thinking about it.   
  
His two idiots. One of them is Strength. One of them is Magic. One of them is risking his life... for what?   
  
_For me,_  Arthur realises, and he struggles to swallow the lump in his throat.  _They're risking their life... for me_ .   
  
Merlin gives him an odd look as he passes Arthur the reins to his horse. "Are you all right, sire?"   
  
Arthur thinks about it. The naiad called him Courage, and what does that mean anyway, being  _Courage_ ? What would Gwen say?   
  
He can almost hear her voice in his head. She has been his voice of conscience for longer than she's had any sway over his heart.  _Courage means... sometimes leading men into a battle, knowing not all of them are going to come back. Sometimes it means making the hard choice, deciding who of your people will live and who will die; whatever's best for the majority. And sometimes..._   
  
Arthur's taking too long to respond. Merlin holds his gaze, concern darkening his face. Arthur flashes back to that odd mental vision he had last night, of Merlin's face, flush with gold.   
  
_...sometimes it means knowing something, and pretending not to_ .   
  
"I'm fine," Arthur says, past the lump in his throat. "Let's go home."


End file.
